He climbed the shrouds and dropped into the crow’s-nest. The after deck, from the companion hatch to the taffrail, had been reserved by the revolutionists for Helen Marr and her steamer chair. She had conquered the Russians by her smiles and songs. They all stood in the presence of death and the unknown. The appearance of the sea; the strange tides and currents; the action of the compass at variance with the stars—all these drove the haunting desire of companionship within men’s breasts. Old differences were forgotten in the face of despair.
Stirling took quiet charge of the ship. He gave the orders, which were partly understood by the leader, who, Stirling soon learned, really knew a fair amount of English, although at first he had been loath to disclose his knowledge, no doubt for strategic reasons. One or two others of the Russians had a smattering of English.
The _Pole Star_ dodged in and out of ice floes and drifting packs which had been loosened by the unusual warmth. The way ahead was unknown and uncharted, and it was barely possible that the heavier ice had gone south and west with the current.
Gripped with the desire for research and discovery, Stirling made many notes in Marr’s old log book. He held the crow’s-nest until the sun rimmed the western waste of waters and ice; then descended to the deck as an open lane appeared before the course of the ship.
With his hand in his pocket he moved among the silent revolutionists, and they made way for him as he stepped across the waist of the ship and climbed the quarter-deck steps. Their attitude was one of respect. Had he not driven the _Pole Star_ that day through a wilderness of drift ice which none of them believed passable? His hearty "Steady, port; hard aport—now starboard!" was a revelation in piloting.
The coffee he drank as Helen Marr appeared from the companion way cleared his brain. He tapped the log book and swept his hand over the sea to the north.
"All new!" he said, proudly. "We’re about the first ship to make this passage. McClintock on a sledge was up here."
Helen Marr brushed the hair from her forehead and turned with the silver coffeepot in her hand. She pointed over the taper jib boom of the _Pole Star_. "I remember," she said, "a painting in an old book, of Lady Franklin and Sir John Franklin sitting together in an old London room. The painting was called ’The Northwest Passage.’"